Uninvited
by Wicked Seraphina
Summary: ...he was at the zenith of his ambition, power and dangerousness. And he was standing in my living room. And I was only wearing a towel. Revamped and reposted.
1. In Which I Don't Expect the Unexpected

_Author's Note: I decided to merge together the prologue with chapter one, because there was a decided lack of DL-ness that I found offensive. I like this better._

_Disclaimer: I do not own anything you recognize. I don't own anything, period. I am a fanfiction hobo._

* * *

**Chapter One**

**In Which I Don't Expect the Unexpected, and the Unexpected Happens To Happen**

* * *

"PARTY AT SARAH'S HOUSE!"

I winced, holding the phone away from my ear as my best friend and crowed excitedly. I'd just let spill that my parents were going to London for a month on some kind of investors' business trip, leaving the house in my command. To me, this meant time to indulge my hermit tendencies. To Rachael, this meant alcohol and boys in large quantities.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I calmed my friend like I would an excitable horse. "Simmer down, Rach. I'd like to still be able to hear when I'm sixty. I'd also like to stay in my house until I'm out of college. I imagine my parent's wouldn't be too happy to come home to beer-drenched carpet and slices of bologna stuck to the walls, and I'm not much for the whole 'starving college student' idea."

"What? Like we'd leave the house looking like shat?" Yes, shat. Rachael was renowned for astonishing fluency in swearing as well as creatively avoiding it, depending on her mood.

"No farking way," I snapped. Okay, so maybe she rubbed off on me. "But I doubt you'd be too keen on playing Merry Maids with me afterwards."

"Oh, come on, Sarah." I could just see her large brown eyes rolling at the stubbornness of her introverted friend. Rachael was the perfect debutante as well as social butterfly extraordinaire. She just couldn't understand the loners of the world. "It's just harmless fun. Kickbacks, you know? No more than twenty people. I'm not talking fifty-person rave."

I groaned loudly for her benefit.

Rachael would not be swayed. "We'll do it in the first week. I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to spruce up after that, and even more to live like someone stranded on a desert island."

I glared at the nearest red thing, imagining it to be my friend's red-haired self. Said thing happened to be a beanie baby crab with a horribly happy smile stitched onto its face. Damn crab. Pissing me off. "Well, now that you put it that way, you're an ass."

"Smirnoff, Sarah," Rachael sing-songed temptingly. "Envision grape Smirnoff..!"

I snickered despite myself, and she joined me smugly. Hook, line, and sucker.

"Alright, Rachael. We'll see."

What followed was a string of jubilant cursing, punctuated by words like "dang" and "spiffilicious," and phrases like "kick mass azzle." All very, very loudly.

"I said 'we'll see,' not 'let's do it'!"

"Yeah, well, 'we'll see,'" Rachael purred, convinced of her victory. "Call me when the parentals are gone, okay?"

"Okay," I replied, grinning. The girl was irrepressible. "They leave in two days."

"Sweet chickens! I love you!"

"Love you too, you spaz. Bye."

"Ciao!" _Click._

Setting the phone down, I slapped my hand over my eyes and flopped in a boneless sprawl onto one of the several mismatched couches in my living room. Was I so possessive of my free time that even now I was plotting my escape? It wasn't like I had anything exciting planned for my month of liberty. Work. Renting movies. Junk food. Work. Drawing. Work. Playing my music so loud that I was bound to be deaf long before sixty. Work.

Hey, I was _saving up_ for college. I never actually said I was _in_ _it_ yet.

I frowned as I surveyed the whole of my life from my place on my sofa. I never had many friends. Just one or two very close ones and a plethora of acquaintances that had the nerve to call me friend when they were really my friends' friends. I'd lived in Bend, Oregon for all of my nineteen years, yet I knew practically nobody. I had spent the majority of my life by myself, daydreaming, clunking around on the computer, and sitting around in ponderous silence. Maybe that was all my life was. One big, ponderous silence.

For the love of God, I was even trying to dodge out of a _party_. A party that promised to have no consequences.

What other conclusion could be arrived at?

"I am such a loser," I moaned piteously. I wasn't without sympathy, however, for Zeke, my one-year-old golden retriever, loped over to me to deliver an exceptionally slobbery kiss to my cheek.

Startled, I flailed my way into a sitting position and glowered at his adoring face before touching a hand to my own, staring at my glistening fingers as I drew them away. _Eww._ "And I'm slimy…"

"Rruurph," commiserated Zeke.

* * *

"…and don't forget to lock the doors at night!"

"Yeah, I know. Those darn rapists." I watched my mother as she fluttered about, neatly placing clothes and toiletries in her suitcase. 'Darn' was actually a necessity in this case—mommy darling would probably make me drink holy water if she heard me utter an oath. "Mom, I've been home alone before. I'm a big girl. If psychos try to get me, I'll just kill them first."

Mother fixed me with a reproachful, worried look. "Don't use such violent words, sweetie. They make you sound hard."

I choked on a perverted quip that crouched on the tip of my tongue, settling for a melodramatic sigh. "I've gotta get to work," I announced, rolling to my feet from my place plopped on my parent's enormous, poofy white bed.

Mom whirled around to face me, beaming her perfect smile at me. "I love you, sweetie," she crooned, pulling me into a hug I returned firmly. My personality and hers were as opposite as ink and bleach, but she was my mom, and I loved her dearly. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too, mom," I smiled. "Love ya oodles. Bring me back something shiny."

She laughed, and I wandered into the living room, seeking my dad. I found him perched in our most elegant chair—a dark blue velvet throne that looked like it belonged to an emperor. Or just a snobby Victorian lady. My dad looked silly in it. He always reminded me of a lumberjack, what with his dark brown beard, burly frame and ruddy complexion. He also reminded me of an owl. It was the nose.

And the bastard just _had_ to pass the feature on to me.

"I gotta get to work," I echoed to him. He turned his bright blue eyes up to me from their place riveted to the newspaper, smiling brightly. "You guys'll be gone by the time I get back."

"Yep," he said cheerily. "And I'm glad. Glad, damnit!"

I snickered. I had a lot in common with my old man. "I'll miss you too, precious father," I growled as I ruffled his graying dark blond hair mercilessly.

"Aw, my young fruit loop," he said, standing up to hug me and kiss my forehead. "I'll miss you too. Have a good day at work. Don't get fired."

"Okay, but just because you said so," I returned. Then I blinked. "Whatcha reading?"

He blinked back at me. "It's a newspaper."

"No kidding?" Mock-glaring at him, I snatched it from his hands and read the headline again to make sure I had read it right.

**_Extraterrestrial Activity In The High Desert!_**

"What kind of garbage are they printing these days?" I sniffed, shoving the paper back into my dad's hands. "Honestly. Light rings and humanoid non-human whatevers. You wanna know what else Central Oregon is known for? Meth labs!" Hugging my dad again as he grinned at my good-humoured tirade, I turned and stalked to the front door. "Besides, life isn't as exciting as that. Crack-heads, sure. Supernatural activity, no."

"I'll see you in a month, sweet pea," Dad said, smiling fondly.

"Crack heads!" I cried in farewell, waving gracelessly as I left.

* * *

"Lord," I grumbled as I slammed my car door shut. "Eight dollars and twenty-five cents an hour just isn't worth it." Work was a nightmare. My main manager was the most critical hag on the face of the planet. I constantly prayed that she'd "meet her Maker," but I'm certain that if she did, she'd just tell Him what a shitty job He did making the rainbow.

After I rescued my hair from the jam I'd unintentionally trapped it in, I stalked fuming into the house, muttering to myself like a schizophrenic. Zeke padded along behind me, beaming furrily, oblivious to my less than chipper mood. He followed as I stormed into my room, stripping viciously out of my work clothes. I paused before dawning my pajamas, which I wore whenever I was at home, to regard myself in the mirror.

I wasn't a modern beauty. Modern beauties were all straight-lines, thin and athletic, with delicate faces and slender hands. I was curves. I was built like the Vikings I descended from. I was owl-beaked and wild-haired. I was fifty pounds heavier than the average fashion model, with the strong hands of a tomboy and the ink-stained fingers of an artist. I wasn't ugly, no. At times I thought myself rather pretty. But I wasn't the norm, either.

I was a wildebeest among gazelle.

Cringing, I hurriedly gathered my home clothes and fled the condemning presence of the mirror, seeking comfort in the form of a hot shower.

I'd have stayed in lot longer than a half-hour too, that is if I hadn't gotten the distinct feeling that something wasn't… right. The half-nauseating, half thrilling feeling that comes when you know you're going get into a head-on collision with the semi-truck barreling toward you—

I had actually been waxing eerily poetic about the sensation when I heard something that stopped any excess thinking dead in its tracks. It was a deep, monotonous humming sound. I was climbing out of the shower when it grew noticeably louder. Baffled and more than a little afraid, I quickly slung a towel around myself and crept cautiously into the living room, from whence the humming was emanating.

Only now it wasn't a mere hum. It was full-blown roaring, eliminating my desperately logical guess that everything electric in my house was overloading. I was just considering running into the computer room at the end of the hall and diving out the window when an explosion of light nearly fried the contacts right out of my eyes. I screamed for my dad instinctively, vaguely aware of Zeke's terrified crying somewhere in the house, the sound somehow magnifying my own fear a thousand fold. I pressed back against the couch behind me, compelled to watch the scene by freakish curiosity as the light molded itself into the shape of a circle. The cacophony was intensely painful at that point, and I wondered if my ears were bleeding—

When everything was suddenly deathly silent.

My humorous side urged me to snigger at the irony that I'd indeed gone deaf long before turning sixty. I was tempted to follow it's prodding if only for the hope of hearing my sniggering, but before I did, a dark figure was spit from the pool of light and hurled to the floor like a paper pushed by the gales of a hurricane.

Suddenly the light and the noise was gone, leaving me alone with what appeared to be a long, lumpy, black curtain, crumpled on the floor lifelessly.

I stood where I was for a long time, gawking at the curtain as if I expected it to fly onto my face like one of those nasty hand-thingies from _Alien_.

_Alien_…

Memories of the mocked newspaper article my dad was reading that morning returned to my like a punch to the gut. Did an alien just _beam_ into my house? …Did an alien just beam its _curtain_ into my house? And why was the curtain moving?

I squished back further against the couch as the curtain rose to it's feet, groaning and snarling. I gasped, and it whirled around, staring at me with razor-sharp eyes the colour of flames.

Eyes I knew as well as the white hair that fell into them.

My mind raced, analyzing the situation. His eyes were gold. Okay, after The Soulforge. His robes were black velvet, which meant he was from somewhere in between his fainting at the Great Library in Palanthas and his kind-of-not-really death in the Abyss. Summarized, he was at his most ambitious, most dangerous, most powerful zenith.

And he was standing in my living room.

And I was only wearing a towel.

Of course, my frazzled, disbelieving thoughts spanned about a half-second, because he almost immediately slouched back to the floor, convulsing violently with the most horrid, gurgling, sickly coughing I'd ever heard in my life.

So I did what anyone would do with the Archmagus, Raistlin Majere, fighting for his next breath on their living room floor.

I shrieked and ran, locking myself in my parents' room.

* * *

_Review and I'll let you touch his robes!_


	2. In Which It All Begins To Make Sense

_Author's Note: Yaay! Reviewers! You love me, you really love me!! -fans self- And I didn't forget my promise.. so, here. -throws a very tattered and torn black robe to the masses- Be thankful, too. It took forever for me to get it off of him. But I sure enjoyed the process. XD_

**Heather: **Thanks, man! You're opinion matters tons to me. Though mine shouldn't matter so much to you. Mine tends to suck and awful lot. u.u

**Ambrosius Emrys:** Good t' hear it. n.n Thanks!

**She-Magus:** Hot velvet must feel like heaven. XD As for Raistlin being an alien, if you look at Krynn as being another world and not just Earth in the pastfuture, that would make him an alien. He just doesn't walk around saying, "Peace, friend!" :D Thank you for your review!

**Blackrose15:** Yeah.. it would. But think of it like... well, Raistlin doesn't know if a towel isn't just what Earth clothes look like. Hehe. Thank you!

**Soulforged Mage:** Whoa, whoa, whoa! Here!! -throws black velvet in your general direction- You can have it! LoL! Thank you so much for your compliments. They made me blush madly. n.n() You should still put up your story! The idea's been used before I got up the gall to use it, so it's not mine. I wanna read yours!

**Not Logged In Person: **Wow.. really? Wow. Thank you. I'm gonna get a big head if ya go on like that. -snicker- I really do appreciate it.

**Rynadrin:** I'm so glad you like my general verboseness. Heh.. I got a lot of flack for that in Lit Class. My teachers hated it. But I think words are beautiful, so I pile as much beauty as I can into a sentence. I'm glad you appreciate it like I do. n.n

_Again, thankya thankya thankya! Authors eat, sleep and breathe reviews, I kid you not!_

_Heeeere's JOHNNY! (Only not.)_

_Disclaimer: I own Raistlin. In my dreams. And we do physically impossible things together. ...what? I'm sorry, was that too much:D?_

_Darn, people! I jest! I own nothing!_

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Two**

**In Which It All Begins To Make Sense… Kind Of.**

* * *

My mind raced as stood facing the door I had locked seconds previously, unable to move due to all the frenzied thoughts in my head. Should I hide? Was I really in danger? Would he even bother to come looking for me? Would I miss seeing the only magic I'd ever see in my lifetime as I hid under my parents' bed while he warped away? Was he too worn and sick to utter a magical phrase? 

Was I _insane_?

Ridiculous concern for my favourite literary character replaced my fear of him, so I pressed my ear against the door, not quite knowing what to listen for. More coughing perhaps, or the cliché _poof_ of a cartoon wizard vanishing into thin air. Something. Whatever I expected, it certainly wasn't this stark silence.

Ignoring all of the red flags that shot up as I unlocked and cracked open the door, I peered down the hall toward the living room.

Hold on, freeze! Where did he go? The way he had been hacking, it wouldn't have been shocking to find him dead or unconscious from a lack of air. But there was no trace of the murderous mantic. Frowning, I opened the door further, chilling dread grasping at my heart at the old-hinged creak that sounded from the action.

It wasn't unwarranted. As if from nowhere, a talon-like golden hand shot through the shadows of the hallway, pressing against the hollow of my chest just under my neck, palm flat and fingers splayed. I screamed for the third time that night, partially in fear and partially in pain. His touch felt like a cattle-brand! In a rush he was upon me, slamming me back against the wall, his face a few inches from mine.

Terror mingled with awe.

As much as I admire and envy the talents of Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman, they utterly failed to describe their most infamous character's eyes properly. 'Hourglass eyes,' they had written, over and over again, as if the phrase was sufficient. I had never understood how only his eyes could be visible while the rest of his face was lost to the shadows of his hood. Not until then. They glowed much like candles, the colour _and_ radiance of firelight, faintly illuminating their cages of pale silver lashes. The irises weren't simply gold, but a burning saffron perimeter fading to feral yellow near the well-defined hourglass pupils. Such ghostly luminescence probably would be lost in daylight, but here, in the dimness of the unlit bedroom, I could see it shine softly on the wetness of my hair.

I was so helplessly spellbound by that stare, by the iron scent of blood that washed over my face with his breath, that I didn't hear him speak. When he pressed his searing hand harder against my chest I gasped, the pain returning me to the present. His eyes were boring into me, and I slowly realized that he was waiting for a response. Too bad I had no clue what he said.

"Auwh..?" I managed breathlessly.

That eerie stare narrowed with impatience, and his razor tongue dripped acid. "Do you understand my words?" He repeated slowly, like a was addressing a challenged child.

I nodded, whimpering as the movement seemed to stoke the fire that raged where his skin met mine.

He mirrored my nod with a tiny incline of his pointed chin, as if the answer pleased him, a little. "Tell me where I am," he rasped, and again I was awed, this time at how inexplicably compelled I felt to obey this frail man.

"Er- Earth…." His brows furrowed in confusion, though the commanding intensity of his eyes never faltered. I realized that the word, so easily comprehended by myself, held little meaning to this otherworldly being. I gulped and tried again. "A c-continent called North America… on the world of Earth…." His expression began to contort, though I couldn't read it. "Y-year 2006," I stammered in addition, though I had no idea how the date would clarify his whereabouts to him.

Raistlin stared at me for countless moments longer before his lips parted in a wolfish snarl, the pressure of his hand intensifying until my ribcage felt as if it would be crushed. "Failed?" He spat, staring straight through me at God-knows-what as his eyes grew wider and wider with fury. "_Failed_?!" The volume and pitch of his voice was swiftly rose until he loosed the word "Impossible!" in the shriek of a diving hawk.

I tried in vain to gulp in air, but my lungs felt far too compressed to comply. The sorcerer ranted on, either oblivious to my slow suffocation or uncaring. Neither would have surprised me.

"I knew the words!" He was raging as my vision filled with darkness. "I could have recited them in my deepest slumber! If I were blind, still I could have _perfectly_ prepared the Infinite Circle! How could I have erred…!"

But I couldn't hear him anymore, because I was falling down, right through the floor, and he was getting further and further away….

* * *

Pale early morning sunlight shone through the wall of windows to my left, feebly warming my icy skin. I shivered uncontrollably, clutching my tiny blanket tighter around me. My back hurt, my hands were cramped, and my chest ached fiercely from how he… 

My eyes shot open, and I sat up.

I had been unconscious all night, slumped against the wall in between the door and the dresser in my parents' room. The windows were always open in there, which explained why I was so cold—it was autumn, after all—and my hands were cramped because I was clutching the towel I was still sporting with a death-grip. And my chest ached because….

I shakily got to my feet, walking on chill-stiffened legs to look into the vanity mirror that hung over my mother's dresser.

My hair was a wild mess of artificially cranberry kinks and waves. The dark circles under my eyes combined with my blue-tinged lips made me look much like a corpse. And there, in the upper center of my chest was the mark of a spindly, long-fingered hand. The skin was as sensitive as a burn as well as the colour of one, the bright red drowning out the purple-yellow of severe bruising. I brushed trembling fingers against it, the fear I felt last night once again welling up in my stomach.

Was _he_ still in the house?

Unwilling to again be in the presence of the notorious mage while not wearing a stitch, I threw on the pajamas I had laid out the night before as if they were armour. I watched myself as I did so, breathing easier as the hideous blight vanished beneath the thick blue fabric of my sweatshirt. The unreal happenings last night seemed less threatening when I couldn't see the painful result of them.

Steeling myself with a deep breath, I ventured out of my parents' room, shooting wary glances up and down my hallway. Creeping as quietly as I could, I flattened myself against the wall, peeking around the corner where the hallway opened into the living room.

He was most certainly still here. Garbed as the night, he stood out against the multi-coloured patchwork quilt of furnishings that were my mother's décor. He was facing away from me, his head bowed down onto the dining room table he was seated at. He wasn't moving.

I was sorely disappointed in myself when, for the second time in less than twelve hours, I felt concern for the self-absorbed creature at the table. Concern made even more ludicrous in light of my abuse at his hands last night. I looked away, grinding the heels of my shaking hands into my eyes, wondering if I was destined to become the second (or the first, depending on from whence my guest came) Crysania. I could understand her now. I'd felt it, too. There was something captivating about Raistlin Majere that warred with something terrifying. Perhaps the fact that he had long eyelashes, and I'd always admired long eyelashes…

What? _No!_

Lord. I really was insane.

Even as I reprimanded myself, I was inching out of hiding, approaching him stealthily to see if he was breathing. For better or worse, he was. But the artist in me wouldn't let my inspection end there. There was something artful even about the laboured expanding of his sleek ribcage. It shuddered with each inhale, the air not coming to him in smooth currents as it did anyone else. He had to wrangle it into his body, even if his lungs were reluctant to comply. I watched the rich velvet ripple like water from his rhythmic trembling, my fingers itching to reach out and touch him, as if the soreness beneath my throat wasn't enough proof of his existence.

Thoughts of the wound never failed to shake me from my absurd admiration. Firmly admonished and assured that my visitor wasn't deceased, I crept forward to see what exactly we was doing, while trying to remain out of sight myself.

I couldn't help but gape. I just couldn't believe that Raistlin Majere was snoozing at my kitchen table, his forehead resting on the opened pages of, what else, a spellbook.

Impish curiosity stole over me and I tried to surreptitiously read a few lines of the arcane text, baffled to see the words apparently doing the square dance under my gaze.

I hastily skittered away, prepping a pot of tea.

The magical ward on his books.

Right. I knew that.

The sun was up and at 'em, proof that the world had not come to an end. It turned it's beaming face toward the Earth, filling my kitchen with a splendid radiance and lighting the shadows in my mind. Everything seamed a lot less frightening as my own element surrounded me. My unintentional visitor looked so out of place in the sunlight that I smirked, feeling as though I'd somehow gained the upper hand with him.

I decided to be there when he woke. I wasn't another Crysania. I reasoned away my cowering reaction to him last night as shock. I mean, hell, I hadn't even believed him to be alive, and BAM! We're alone in my house, one of us noticeably lacking in the clothes department. I'd known (so to speak) Raistlin Majere since he was six. His behavior hadn't shocked me last night—in retrospect, I'd expected it. I knew all about him, and if that didn't give me the upper-hand, what else could?

No. Not another Crysania.

Perching on my countertop, grinning like the cat who caught and intended to savour this particular canary, I cradled a mug of apple spice tea and waited for the dreamer to awaken.

…For a long time. A _really_ long time.

"What the hell," I muttered, glaring at the napping magus irritably. I'd sipped my way through five cups of tea, dealt with the consequences of imbibing the liquid, and came back for another cup of tea. He had not even twitched. I'd even refilled the teapot once, snapping the faucet on none to quietly, plunking the kettle down clumsily, making a general racket. The books said that he was a light sleeper.

Nothing.

Light sleeper, my ass! I was half tempted to run over, shake his chair and yell, "The bunnies are coming, the bunnies are coming!" But I doubted he'd get the joke, and I didn't have a death wish.

He had to be a light sleeper, though. There was no reason why the authors would lie about their own character. So, was I missing something? What would just zap all of his energy like this—

Of course! A spell! He failed, he said. Krynn mages were always exhausted after intense casting! But what spell would, if botched, hurtle him to another world? And why was it never mentioned in the books?

Drawn into my thoughts like a math geek to an equation, I tried to part the mist of terror that clouded the prior evening, fighting to remember what else Raistlin had said. He'd mentioned something weird. What was it... a circle? Something about 'infinity' and a circle?

And then I knew. I knew exactly from where on the Dragonlance timeline he had emerged. I knew the spell he had been trying to cast.

The only instances a magical circle dealing with time had been mentioned was during the Legends Trilogy, first within the tower of Wayreth, and then in Fistandantilus' lair. At Wayreth, Par-Salian had sent Caramon and, inadvertently, Tasslehoff, into the past to stop Raistlin.

Next, Raistlin threw his twin and Crysania forward in time… that would've been Raistlin's second attempt casting the spell, for he would have accomplished it once before, alone, in the privacy of his own tower. His intention was to step back in time in order to learn from, and eventually destroy, Fisty the Lich. That first incantation was never mentioned in the books, but _why_?

Leaning against the counter, I crossed my arms and stared out the window. I would bet anything that this hiccup was his _true_ first attempt at casting the Time Travel spell. Something must have thrown him off, and I was damn sure that the something was a certain tall, dark and traitorous elf whose name began with a "D" and ended with an "alamar."

I scowled. The piss-ant. Unlike most of my fellow feminine Dragonlance readers, I disliked the dark elf with a talent for stripping. He was always either ingratiating himself, sleeping around or being a prick. It bothered me.

_Cough._

I jolted. I'd been so lost in my loathing that I'd forgotten why I'd thought of the elf in the first place. Twirling around to regard the groggy magician with an over-bright smile, I cried, "It's alive!"

It was his turn to start. For long moments Raistlin regarded me as if I were a cockroach he found crawling through his bedsheets, while I busied myself with pouring tea. With all of the bizarre familiarity that I felt, I padded to where he sat and placed the steaming mug down before of him. For an instant I thought that he would rise and back away from me or order me away, but he just stared at the comically painted, fat, black cat that adorned the mug he had been offered.

"I do not recognize you," he began softly, slowly turning his powerful eyes my way. "But you obviously know me."

* * *

_Questions? Complaints? I'm dying to hear from you!_

_Also, I had some help with this chapter from my fellow authoress, Outrageous Raelena. Thank you, Rae!_


	3. In Which I Cross Verbal Swords

_Author's Note:_ _Ugh. Sorry I haven't updated! I had a computer virus that wouldn't let me on the internet, and on top of that I got promoted at work, so I work a lot more. Eesh. I'm so overwhelmed by you guys, though... you're all so amazing! You're my heroes, every single one of you!_

_-hands out free dried rose petals-_

_Yeah.. you better hide those before Raistlin finds out I stole his belt again._

_How'd I get his belt, you ask?_

_Ooh-ho.. wouldn't you like to know? XD_**

* * *

**

**Mark Solo:** Okay. Here ya go. XD

**Semi-Automatic Bunny:** LOL! Love the name! I like your in-depth thinking on plot.. I'm totally open to any suggestions you have, though I do have some things I wanna shock darling Raistlin with. But I like your thinkin'. You make me think. (That may be dangerous.. but whatchagonnado.)

**Uncherished Light:** n.n Thank you muchly! I'm glad I'm not the only one who hates Dally the Dork. He's just a prick, not even an interesting one, and I feel no attraction. :P I hope future chappies live up to your expectations. -sweatdrop-

**Doofus96:** LoL. Thank you. I'm sure spelling errors are on their way. I don't have a lot of patience for proof reading and it shows. -nervous laugher- Oh well. Thank you SO much for your compliments! You made me blush. :)

**SquiggyTwiggy:** I pretty much suck at writing anything but humour. I can't break away from it. :x I laugh all the time.. I think it shows. I can't wait to read your story now-- I actually have a day off coming up! Isn't that amazing?!

**Hwoarangsquardie:** You -can- write like this, and better, too. And I wanna see ya do it! Compliments from fellow authors are the best. :D Thank you!

**Heather:** I did it to torture you, my dear, and you alone. Mwuah HA!

**TL:** I thought I had a stalker there for a second.. I didn't look at the name. LOL! Way to scare me, man. Thanks a lot. :P Meeehh.. I like fanfiction. I can't write Raistlin if it's not FF. And I need to. Because he's my drug, doncha know. But thank you-- any compliment from you concering writing is awesome!

**Darth Melly:** Most people would probably find my descriptions of Raistlin excessive, but I see him as extraordinary looking, even if he isn't handsome. But he's... strange, and so much of his odd personality is reflected in the sheer passion of his design, you know?

...or maybe that's just the rantings of an obsessed girl. -cough- Thank you!!

**Kyra Neko:** Dalamar suckeths massively! Down with Dally!!! Heheh. You made me blush, too. You're amazing. I'll give you a lock of Raistlin's hair. If he doesn't fry me as I lunge at him with a pair of scissors...

**Goldnote:** I -had- to give tribute to the cliche bunny joke. LOL. It's always a goodie. Sorry about my dwelling on Crysania.. I just really don't like her, and this character is, literally, me. I'm trying to throw as much of me as I can in there, and I know I'd hate ever being compared to that goodie-two-braincells. I am sorry it bothered you, though. You can smack me, ifya want. But thank you! Your opinion matters. You, after all, hold sway over the path of the story. -feverish laughter-

**ChildlikeEmpress:** I -love- Raistlin-On-Earth stories! They're so hard to find:D Thank you so much for your encouragement, and I'm sorry I kept you waiting. Darn computer viruses!

**SylvanDreamer:** Oh yeah. Raistlin. Because he's just that shexy. LOL I'll try to update faster!

**Mordae AKA Dark Shadow:** They really should write more about Morgion, I think. I imagine he'd be fascinating. Yeah, hopefully I'll kick myself into continuing this.. I'm so flighty by nature, it's hard for me to focus on any one thing. (I try to reflect that in the OC in this fic, too.. since she -is- me, really.) I'll try, though! It's wild how much a word of encouragement and advice from you can help. Thank you so much for taking the time!

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**In Which I Cross Verbal Swords With the Master**

* * *

I looked my perfectly unnerving guest in the perfectly unnerving eye, outwardly as cool as a cucumber. What I really wanted to so was slap him for quite effectively severing the upper hand I had thought I'd had. I knew, of course, that this was probably his intention.

I would have skinny-dipped in magma before giving him the pleasure of knowing he'd succeeded.

There I stood with the most skillful mindfucker in literary history, who most likely thought women were all easily manipulated bleeding hearts. I had to meticulously analyze everything this man said, lest he play some secret game with my person, as he was infamous for. Fortunately for me, I wasn't too bad of a manipilator myself, being a daddy's girl. It took all the effort I had not to flash a superior smirk. Raistlin didn't know what was coming to him.

I didn't blink. "D'ya think so?"

I knew better than to take his equally bland reaction at face value. The incredibly slight darting movement of misshapen pupils told me that he was doing as much analyzing as I was. No other physical sign came forth, but this minor flaw in his omniscient facade spoke volumes to any true Raistlander. He was tired even after his long repose, he was frustrated with his uncertain circumstances, he was sure that his conclusion regarding my knowledge of him was correct even if I refused to confirm it, and he was angry at the smile that was spreading across my lips.

Look, I tried to fight it. Really. But I'd suddenly recovered that disembodied upper hand.

And my God, was it_ intoxicating_.

Raistlin, the sharp, arrogant creature that he was, sensed my exaltation at his expense, and would have none of it. His eyes stopped moving, narrowing into golden slits that reminded me of an angry serpent. And suddenly he wasn't so helpless and lost-- he was downright predatory.

"Tell me, _Miss Sarah_," he hissed, somehow making the threatening sibilance sound casual.

_How the hell does he..?_ Was he leaning forward, or was I moving closer...?

What? Oh, right. He was talking again. "Is this your favourite chronicle of my life?" He queried blithely, holding up a faded, partially-decomposed looking book, and I couldn't keep the blood from leaving my cheeks. "Or did it simply fall into your laundry basin on three dozen occasions?"

The Soulforge.

_Shitake sick-ass mushrooms! _Of course. I'd written my name on the first page.

I reeled. Maybe he'd slept so long because he'd been up so late, reading about himself. Had he read the Legends Trilogy? Did he know his own future? Did my posession of the books just seriously frick up the history of Krynn? Would Raistlin see the hopelessness of his evil, evil plans and wear the beachy-clean white robes once more, robbing himself of half of his sex appeal?

Please, God, no!

_Hold on a minute there, Sarah. This isn't your fault. It's not like you forked over the books yourself. None of this would have happened if he hadn't..._

Wait. Did he...?

Bastard!

"You snooped through my room," I murmered, gaping at him. "You... you poked your nose into all my stuff!" So I was shouting at the greatest power for darkness Krynn had ever seen like he was a naughty kitten! I was shocked and appalled and indignant and very, _very_ embarrassed. Tidy as a landfill and cluttered with various Johnny Depp posters, my room was a disaster that I hadn't lifted a finger to clean in months. How he'd found the book was a bloody miracle. But my uninspiring tirade wasn't over just yet. I sputtered articulately before bellowing,

"You _fuckslut_!"

Another inter-dimentional record. It was the second time in less than fifteen minutes that the Master of Past and Present looked at me as if I'd deflected a magic missile with a cherry popsicle.

I would have giggled at the image if I weren't busy running my mouth.

"You scare Zeke to death for all I know, manhandle me while I'm _naked_ as a_ jaybird_, leave me, just as_ naked_, to freeze in sub-zero temperatures, rifle through my belongings, and you still have the nerve to sneer at my God damn tea?!" _He's turning brass. Is he blushing..?_ "Naked!!" I screamed senselessly, throwing my arms out as if I were driving home a point.

Oh yes. I knew Raistlin was a prudish thing, and I intended to milk that cow until it's udders fells off. But the Predator-turned-Prey, though still brass, refused to let his boots lure him to distraction.

To this day, I can't remember how many times the tables turned in that 'conversation'.

He threw a glance to the novel he had slowly lowered during my asinine lecture, and almost wavering eyes suddenly burned with cunning that was much more fitting.

Choosing not to cower or defend himself as I had hoped, he instead rose wraith-like to his feet, closed the distance between us, raised a fiery hand, hooked his index and middle finger around the collar of my sweatshirt, and pulled it down.

_Oh God, oh God, oh God...!_

What is this 'breathing' you speak of..?

It was all very dream-like and slow-motion, extending the span of a second into a century.

Why exactly was his touch so hot? Why was _he_, for that matter?

_Shut up, Sarah, and think of something! No, not that!_

My scandalized mind was, as usual, over-reacting, because it became obvious after that one long second that Raistlin was just surveying the damage he had wrought on my person the previous night. Metallic fingertips brushed over the patch of purple-red skin, and I winced, screwing my expression into a glare. He didn't have to stand so freaking close. For a person who didn't like to be touched, he had a tiny personal bubble. This had to have been another method of attack. He wanted to arouse memories of the night before and make me uncomfortable.

Well, one out of two ain't bad.

"While the bruising is severe, none of the damage is permanent." He rasped his diagnosis about three inches from my face. I could almost feel the vibrations of his voice rolling down my neck. Whatever he was arousing, it certainly wasn't memories.

Suddenly angry, I swatted his hand away, braced my hands against his thin chest and shoved him back none too gently. He was less than an inch taller than me and much lighter, so for a moment I was afraid he'd topple backward onto the table. Later I justified the alarm I felt by telling myself that I was only worried because it would have been awkward to have this particular wizard lying sprawled in front of me on a conveniently flat surface. Luckily he wasn't as fragile as a house of cards, for he just staggered slightly before regaining his balance. His supercilious, grumpy stare was still functioning, too.

"Stalemate, already," I grumbled, pushing myself off of the wall I didn't know I had been squishing myself against. I was really starting to not like walls. They were a shitty defense.

He raised a brow, and I matched his gaze dagger for dagger.

"I've had enough of this damn verbal sparring. I know that you know that I know..." I trailed off momentarily, blinking. I wasn't even following myself. I couldn't imagine what _he_ was thinking. "Uhh, rewind, please," I managed to get out. But he probably didn't understand that either. Crap. "Start over. Okay. If you know that I know you, that I've literally read your life, then you know that you'll have to sink to new levels of deceit to pull the wool over my eyes. So don't bother trying. Got that?"

A tiny, false smile barely touched the corners of his lips. "I don't see why I would. There is nothing to gain from you."

I don't know why that hurt. But it did.

"That's.. good." A spider on the ceiling was busy sucking the life out of a moth. I wasn't _jealous_ of the moth... why would I _want_ to be of use to this spider? "I guess." Then I was looking at my thumbs, twiddling away at the speed of light. I hadn't realized I was doing that. Cramming my hands into the front pouch of my sweatshirt and returning my gaze to him, I wondered if I had just imagined the weird amusement I had glimpsed before being replaced by a dispassionate mask. "Well, Mister Majere, just how do you intend to get back to Krynn?"

"The same way I came." He had turned from me, gathering up the lively-scripted spellbook and snapping it shut with one hand dramatically. "But I need time to rest. The magic weakens me... but, of course, you know that."

I was very aware of the way he looked at me. He was attempting to measure just how much of him I knew. In a sense I was glad-- I doubted he would waste time testing my knowledge if he had found the books that recorded his future. But his gaze was a physical sensation, like standing too close to an open fireplace. I only shrugged noncomittally, padding into my kitchen under the charade of looking for breakfast. As it was I only opened the refridgerator and stood before it, hoping I'd feel less like a person stuck in a burning building. I couldn't stay there forever though, so I snatched up a jug of milk and a box of fruit loops from the pantry, whipping up a heaping bowl of artificial colours and flavours. I was already engrossed in the process of eating all of the yellow ones first when I turned around to see Raistlin closing my refridgerator, watching me with an unreadable expression that didn't necessarily imply extreme irritation. Which is why it was noteworthy.

"Nrr--mnph." Swallowing a spoonful of empty calories, I tried again. "Did you-- uhm-- want something to eat?" Lord, this was so unreal! I was offering Raistlin Majere fruit loops, for God's sake!

"No, thank you," he responded politely before resuming his silent observation of the way I ate breakfast.

Is this how meth-heads feel all the time?

I shifted on my bright-coloured socks uncomfortably, hardly knowing to handle the situation. "Awkward," I drew out the word in a quiet sing-song fashion, hurriedly cramming an enormous amount of cereal into my mouth so that I wouldn't feel obligated to keep up conversation.

I couldn't help but wonder at the contrast between his violent actions the night before and his quiet, almost civil disposition I beheld presently. Then he had been shrieking like a caged demon, and now he was so soft-spoken that I had to stop chewing to hear him. Whatever had changed was in his mind. He never simply had mood swings. His ever-active brain was responsible for his bipolar attitudes. So why was he choosing to treat my like I was worth his time? What did he want?

Maybe I had more in common with the moth than I thought.

After I had set the bowl down in my sink and tidied up after my meal, he addressed me once more.

"An interesting contraption." Or maybe he was addressing the refridgerator. He was opening it again, touching fragile, long fingers to the cold items inside curiosly. "How does it work?"

I gawked at it, feeling quite the simpleton. "I don't know," I replied stupidly, shaking my head. "I don't really think it's interesting at all. I see it all the time. Everyone has one. We can keep food cool for a long time so it won't go bad." Hanging up the dish towel, I paused in thought. "There are a lot of wires and electricity involved. Harnessed lightning energy, really," I blathered, hoping to make some sense to him. I didn't even know if he was listening. He had taken to looking at the digital clock on my oven.

_Here comes another question._

I wanted to scream, '_Why do you even care?!'_ But I chose instead to cut off any questions by snapping, "Don't ask, I have no clue." Frowning, I put my hands on my hips and looked at him in my best no-nonsense way. "Look, you can just go shut yourself up in some room in the house and not deal with me if you want. I'm okay with that. I'm a hermit, you know, and I don't need you to be nice to me."

I instantly regretted my snippy speech as I saw whatever decidedly non-hostile emotion he had been displaying vanish entirely from his sharp-featured, bizarre face, replaced by unreachable frost. I was genuinely baffled by his behaviour as well. What did he want from me? Or was he truly only curious? I had just always thought him to be.. well.. wicked.

He was coolly regarding me then, and I thought he would turn and stalk away, locking himself somewhere away from me like I had suggested. Instead, he whispered coldly, "I do not think you know me as well as you suppose."

At last I was overcome with confusion. I unintentionally raised my voice a couple of notches, crying, "What? What is it? Why are you wasting your time on me? You very nearly killed me last night, and now-- what? Make-up isn't really your style, and I won't buy that card!"

His face was thoughtful and collected, like he hadn't heard a word I'd half-yelled at him. "Why do you adopt my surname?"

I stared, thrown off by the subject change. "Beg'yer pardon?"

"Majere," he pressed, gliding toward me, causing the velvet of his robes to rustle about him like ebony wind. "You call yourself 'Sarah Majere.' Why?"

I blushed and twiddled again, wanting to curl up on the ugly beige floor and die. When he'd searched my room, he'd undoubtedly seen his name scrawled about everywhere, as well as my favourite alias.

Come to think of it... that was the name written on the first page of The Soulforge.

What the hell was I gonna say?

* * *

_Advice? Possibilities? Lemon drops? Feed the muse!_


End file.
